


Rainstorm, Reason to Try

by the_bloss



Category: Check Please! (Webcomic)
Genre: (but are you really surprised), Ace!Shitty, Art Included!, Bi!Lardo, Canon Compliant, F/M, Gen, I am a master of dialogue, I use bro/dude/brah 45 times, I use fuck/variations thereof 43 times, Lardo's pronouns and concept of gender are discussed, Recreational Drug Use, a prequel if you will, accompanying playlist!, also Shitty is on the ace spectrum but it's not specified where, alternating pov, it's a multimedia bonanza!, there's no Bitty in this lol poor kid's still in Georgia, there's nothing conclusive but like it's there
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-27
Updated: 2017-06-27
Packaged: 2018-11-19 22:13:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,785
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11322756
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/the_bloss/pseuds/the_bloss
Summary: Jack’s eyes are darting around somewhat guiltily before he starts, haltingly, “Well, euh…” He scratches the side of his face. “Thing is, euh, I? Actually know her?”Shitty bolts right the fuck up. What the fuck?“See, Murray and Hall wanted me to meet her? The work study program sent them her name.”“What.”“Haha. I’m actually the one who invited her to the kegster? Thought she might want to meet some of the guys.”“WHAT.”“She’s…set to be the new team manager?”“WHAT?!?!!”“Haha. Sorry?”- - - - -Shitty had always been Shitty and Lardo had always been Lardo even before they got to Samwell.There was a process, however, of becoming Shitty & Lardo.





	Rainstorm, Reason to Try

**Author's Note:**

> Hello! I started this ages ago for stephie-senpai but I ~suck~ so it's only here now. (that's lowkey why there's also art and a playlist--to make up for my tardiness). They requested a "Shardo AU where Lardo isn't SMH manager" and that's...not what this is lmao I'm sorry. 
> 
> This is the longest thing I've ever written! Yay!
> 
> There's only one thing that needs to be translated but it should be a mouseover.
> 
> There's an accompanying playlist (a mix of relationship, character, setting, and mood songs) on 8tracks here: https://8tracks.com/the_bloss/rainstorm-reason-to-try
> 
> Title from "Whatever You Want Us to Be" by Kaylene Barber: 
> 
> You're my rainstorm  
> the reason to try  
> I would spend forever  
> to get inside your mind

“Yeah, eat a _dick_ , Holtz!”

  
Shitty’s pong partner—who’s shaping up to be either his best friend or the love of his life or both—just casually leans into Holster’s space and proceeds to unleash the most spectacular belch Shitty’s ever heard out of someone so tiny or maybe ever.  
  
She’s glowing and honestly, Shitty is too. He feels light and effervescent. He’s at a motherfucking kegster, and Shitty has found something that just _fits_.

***

  
It’s the first kegster of sophomore year and it’s practically crawling with LAX bros. “Ffffuck the LAX bros” has been a bylaw since Shitty’s first week at Samwell, but the current SMH seniors don’t seem as passionate about keeping those narrow-minded _dickbags_ off Haus property…Shitty might be a _little_ drunk at the moment, but the point would still stand even if he was sober.

  
And like, normally Shitty is all about people wearing whatever makes them comfortable, but he swears to whatever deity may be up there, _if he sees one more polo with a popped collar—_

  
Yeah, it’s probably time to take a break from the tub juice for a bit.

  
He heads to the kitchen, flips the faucet on, and tilts his head down to gulp straight from the resulting stream, like some kind of woodland creature at a waterfall or some shit. He drinks for a while—look, he’s trying to be Patrick Schwasted, not _die_ —and when he’s done, his throat isn’t so dry and the bottom of his moustache is soaked. Absentmindedly, he brings his bottom lip up to suck some of the moisture out.

  
“Sick, bro, you got crumbs in there too, or what?”

  
Spinning in place (graceful as a motherfucking _gazelle_ , he might add), he spots the figure at the grubby table that must have wandered in while he was partaking in the Haus’s particular brand of iron-tang tap water.

  
Grinning, he regards his tiny observer for a moment before feigning offense, “Um, how dare? You insult me so???? I am a paragon of proper hair care and you would never catch me walking about with _filth_ marring this beaut.”  
  
The girl (probably a girl? They present feminine at the very least, but Shitty’s three weeks deep into a course called Gender Constructs, Performativity, and Fluidity and he would never want to assume) follows his lead and raises her hands in mock apology, “Whoa, sorry. Didn’t mean to question your passion, dude.”

  
“Yeah, well, when you got the ‘stache, or the flow, or both, it’s kind of a given that you’ve set yourself up for a lot of care. It’s kind of like having a child, y’know. Sweet furry children.”

  
“Really? I’ve always kind of felt the urge to just chop mine all off.”

  
The water must be working through his system now, because his bleary eyes comply when he tries to blink focus into them. He takes in the girl in front of him: she has lovely hair, thick and dark, spilling over her shoulders, but as Shitty continues to take in her dark tank, cropped jacket, combat boots, and sharp-as-hell eyeliner, well…

  
“Bro. You could rock the _fuck_ outta the ol’ Samwell Chop.” He accompanies the statement with a broad sweep of his flat palm that he can only hope, in his drunken state, communicates the idea of “chop.”

  
Even if it doesn’t, it causes the girl in front of him to let out a burst of laughter so suited to her round cheeks and so devoid of malice that for a moment, Shitty can’t breathe, can’t think. A sudden vision—a premonition, perhaps—inexplicably makes its way the forefront of his thoughts: streaming sunlight, shifting among dust motes to the tune of the last dying gasps of the girl’s laughter. Even as the sound of the laughter fades, its memory still dances in those dark eyes and _whoa_ the tub juice must have gotten its second wind through his veins. He finds himself blurting, “I’m Shitty.”

  
There’s a brief pause before a meager portion of Shitty’s alcohol-soaked brain kicks in some higher functions, “I—my name. I’m Shitt—that’s my name. My name is Shitty.”

  
The subtle look of patient confusion morphs into a smirk as the girl— _person, Knight, you don’t know_ —as the person comprehends whatever mumbling Shitty’s brain forced out as explanation. To his surprise, the girl takes it in stride and offers a somewhat knowing response: “I’m Lardo.”

  
In waiting for some sort of explanation, Shitty abruptly realizes that this must be how other people feel when he introduces himself. When the smirk morphs yet again into a fierce grin, Shitty further realizes that no explanation is forthcoming. _Well, okay then._

  
He returns the grin with one of his own and prompts, “So. Lards. You play any beer pong?”

  
***  
  
Lardo, as it turns out, doesn’t just _play_ beer pong, she _dominates_ at it. She has turned throwing plastic balls into plastic cups into something resembling a higher art form. Shitty’s almost just along for the ride, and he takes _great_ pleasure in watching the two LAX bros they’re facing struggle to rally their own bro-ness in the wake of their defeat by four cups.

  
Lardo’s currently ignoring the honestly pitiful whines for a rematch, just like she did for Holster and his defense partner. But since she’s just sipping her beer instead of gulping it in preparation for another spectacular belch, Shitty guesses that she is well and truly done now.

  
The night is young. _The Knight is young too_ , Shitty thinks amusedly to himself, and his body could stand to be a little cross-faded right now. He beckons Lardo closer to half-shout above some frog’s pulsing playlist, “You smoke?”

  
***  
  
“Not gonna lie, Shits, this is a pretty sweet set-up.”  
  
They’ve made their way to the Reading Room, a ratty woven blanket on their laps and a bong between them. The Reading Room’s position muffles the music down below to just a distant bass thump and the conversation on the porch to occasional snatches of laughter or glass breaking.

  
Lardo blinks and turns to Shitty, her movements rendered sluggish by the high.  
  
“You bring girls up here and ask them to shotgun?”  
  
Shitty chuckles, “Nah bro, I don’t do that unless the girl’s givin’ off mad vibes. And even then, I’m just as likely to let her lead, if you will.”  
  
He pauses before re-boarding a train of thought from earlier, “Ah, not to assume that you’re a girl. I meant to ask earlier, since we are—uh—newly acquainted: you got preferred pronouns?”  
  
Lardo’s eyebrows raise slightly, sleepy surprise written on her otherwise serene expression, before settling back over her clouded eyes.  
  
“Uh, yeah. I guess ‘she’… ‘her.’ That jazz.”  
  
Shitty gives a short hum of acknowledgment and Lardo shrugs. Shitty doesn’t say anything. Despite the shrug, there’s a certain tension along Lardo’s shoulders that seems to indicate she has more to say.

  
“Um. But I…I also feel comfortable with ‘they’? Yeah, um, I don’t know if this is weird, but sometimes I feel like I—my gender is bound to my body in a way I don’t want it to be. Like, I identify as female but when I’m detached from my body…it—it feels really good to be detached from gender as well, y’know? Sorry, I’m probably not making sense.”  
  
She’s definitely rambling, no doubt spurred on by the foreign chemicals drifting between her neurons, but her inhibitions clearly aren’t lowered enough to dampen her insecurities.  
  
_Oh that won’t do.  
  
 _ Shitty patches his vocabulary together and manages, “Hey hey, wait, bro, I wanna understand. Would you be okay with elaborating? What d’you mean by being ‘detached’ from your body?”  
  
“Just—” Lardo stops and looks out at the streetlamp by the LAX house, formulating her thoughts. For a moment, there’s only the buzz and flicker of the wan orange light. She continues to look at a point somewhere past the rooftops of Greek Row as she continues, “You know, whenever my…whenever my _presence_ or whatever is somehow separate from my appearance. Like, online or…y’know?”  
  
Shitty gives another little hum and kind of wishes he was more sober for this.  
  
Lardo tilts her head back a little. There are only a few stars out—light pollution and all—but she seems to see something there anyway.  
  
“Or…” Lardo’s voice is quieter now. “Or, I make art, right? And, like, I’m sure my experiences as a woman influence it but I can’t help—I can’t help but feel like it’s separate. Like, it feels weird to sign or submit a piece with the knowledge that people think a woman did it.” She fiddles with one of the many loose threads on the blanket. “So when I post art online or something…I don’t know. It feels…nice? To not have it attached to a feminine name; it feels nice when people use gender-neutral pronouns because I haven’t specified.”  
  
She gives a laugh, low and a little self-deprecating, “Is that even a gender identity thing or more of an artistic identity thing?” She pauses, looks down, scratches her nose self-consciously. The silence pulls thin. “Dude, say something, I feel like the height of Samwell pretension right now.” She gives another unsupported laugh.  
  
Shitty laughs too, though nothing’s really funny.  
  
The buzzing of the streetlamp feels a little too loud all of a sudden, adding a strange weight to the quiet.  
  
“I don’t know what kind of thing it is,” he finally murmurs, turning to Lardo only to find her already looking back at him, “but it’s a valid thing.”  
  
There’s a camaraderie—an intimacy, maybe—in their locked gazes. Something unspoken travels between them, though Shitty can’t say what. Something mutual breaks the gaze and Shitty momentarily mourns its loss.  
  
He feels more than sees Lardo take the bong from between them. There’s the click of the lighter, and then a low gurgle joins the buzz of the streetlamp as Lardo takes another hit.  
  
***  
  
Shitty wakes up alone the next day. There’s a thin, achy film on the inside of his skull, but it’s secondary to the hollow, unfulfilled urgency in his chest.  
  
He imagines this is how people who hook up feel the morning after.  
  
In a moment of self-pity, Shitty suspects that what he’s feeling is worse.  
  
***  
  
So, Drunk Shitty is the worst, because “Lardo” can’t possibly be a real name and that’s literally all Sober Shitty has to go on now.  
  
Shitty tries to ask around, but doesn’t get very far with the sorry souls he finds blearily draped over Haus furniture. Lardo must have come in late, when everyone was already decently sloshed.  
  
He’s whining about it to Jack, who is pointedly continuing to do whatever assignment he really doesn’t have to start for another week. After about fifteen minutes, Jack finally turns in his chair (the sort of half-hearted twist that only serves to further exaggerate his shoulder-to-hip ratio _good god_ , the dude should model for Doritos) and gives Shitty a Zimmermann Stare composed of equal parts fondness, exasperation, and dismissal.  
  
“Have you asked Ransom and Holster, those two frogs? I think they were the ones who invited half of the people anyway,” Jack deadpans before returning to his paper on World War whatever-the-fuck. Shitty blinks at the back of Jack’s head before leaping up and planting a sloppy kiss on it.  
  
“Jack Zimmermann, you luscious alabaster pillar of sinew,” Shitty’s already in the hall by the time he shouts over his shoulder, “that is a _brilliant_ idea!”  
  
***  
  
Shitty’s just skidded into the Haus entryway with the intention of hastily donning his lavender flip-flops to go—well he doesn’t actually know where. The freshman dorms? The library, maybe?—when his brain catches up to the glimpse he caught through the kitchen door of Ransom, Holster, and Johnson all milling about the kitchen. He stumbles back and virtually slams his palms on the chipped door frame.  
  
“RANSOM. HOLSTER. I WAS JUST ABOUT TO GO OUT AND LOOK FOR YOU GUYS. Oh, and hi, Johnson.”  
  
Holster raises an unimpressed eyebrow and takes in his appearance. Shitty is uncomfortably reminded all of a sudden that Holster is actually older than him.  
  
“You were gonna go out in just your boxers and a jean vest?”  
  
“And flip-flops, but that’s beside the point. Brah, you gotta help me find someone who was at the kegster Saturday.”  
  
Holster’s other shockingly rectangular eyebrow raises to match the first, and Ransom has now fully turned in his chair, a matching expression on his face. Johnson looks amused, but not surprised in the slightest.  
  
“Sure, bro,” Ransom pipes up. “We know pretty much everyone. This a chick you’re try’na wheel?”  
  
“Um,” Shitty pauses, the _not exactly_ perched on his tongue. He doesn’t want to sleep with Lardo, but he wonders if it’s worth trying to explain to Ransom and Holster that he doesn’t really want to sleep with anybody.  
  
“Sure, I’m…” Shitty searches for a decent word, “ _interested_ in her.” Shitty cringes a little, imperceptible to Ransom and Holster, but Johnson shoots him a look of sympathy. It wasn’t a lie; Shitty _is_ interested in Lardo. She’s certainly piqued Shitty’s interest, just…not in the way Ransom and Holster are implying.  
  
Listen, as much as Shitty has become the team’s aggressive educator when it comes to these things (and as much as Jack has enabled him this year, now that he has the C), that impelling itch that Shitty woke up with just beneath his skin still hasn’t abated, and frankly, Shitty doesn’t know if he wants to risk the potentially lengthy discussion that explaining asexuality to bros often entails.  
  
So yeah, Shitty passes up a Teaching Moment in the interest of efficiency. Sue him.

“Sweet. So I assume you don’t have a name? Lay some traits on me, then,” Ransom says, fingers poised over his keyboard, an—is that an Excel spreadsheet?—open on his screen.

“Uh, right. So, first off, she’s like, tiny…”

***  
  
When Larissa woke up that morning, it was with pounding at her temples, cotton in her mouth, and a voice that sounded distinctly like her mother’s whispering _điếm_ at the back of her mind.

She was spooned up against a shirtless, leanly muscled back and consequently had a face full of surprisingly long hair.  
  
Or, well, Larissa’s woken up to long hair in her face before, it just usually belonged to herself or, you know, someone else with tits.  
  
The chest underneath her hand was decidedly flat and with a mindless brush of her thumb over the skin, bits of the previous night came back to her.  
  
She remembered seeing the teenage guy with an inexplicably full and well-kempt mustache and alien print boxers slurping straight from the faucet like he was dying for it. She remembered putting the beer pong skills she had honed at high school parties to good use. A vivid sensory memory of cradling a turquoise ceramic bong flooded in. She remembered—  
  
Well. It was all sort of a sepia-tinted blur after that. God, she hoped she hadn’t had a drunken, ill-advised hookup at her very first college party.  
  
_Điếm_ , the mom voice hummed smugly.  
  
The thumb that had been absentmindedly stroking the pectoral under her hand stilled as Larissa’s brain shook off enough of the fogginess to take stock of her own body. She didn’t have the tell-tale ache between her thighs she got after sex and—oh _fuck yes_ she was wearing clothes.  
  
Larissa wasn’t above leaving a hookup the next morning before they had woken up, but it did afford her some measure of guilt. This, though, apparently wasn’t a hookup, so Larissa was almost cheerful as she slipped out of bed with a last affectionate pat on her bed partner’s shoulder, located her shoes, and left the Haus without a backwards glance.  
  
***  
  
Shitty normally tries not to scratch, tug at, or otherwise irritate his scalp. It’s bad enough he has to wash his hair so often because of the sheer volume of sweat exercising while wearing a helmet produces, so he tries his best to resist the urge.  
  
Ransom and Holster are making it really _really_ hard to resist that urge.  
  
“Hm…Chelsea Vu?” Holster says, giving a crack in the ceiling his half-lidded, thinking stare. Ransom snaps his fingers into a finger gun before typing the name into Facebook’s search bar. He turns his laptop around and Shitty squints at the latest tiny Asian girl they’ve dredged up.  
  
A beat passes before Shitty has to sigh and say, yet again, “No, sorry.”  
  
Ransom groans in frustration and Holster echoes him. “What is it this time?”  
  
“I don’t know, too conservative-looking? If that makes sense?”  
  
Ransom hums. “I’m pretty sure Chelsea’s, like, really Catholic, actually. So yeah, makes sense, I guess.”  
  
Holster picks up his highlighter again, “Well, sorry bro, but that’s all I got. Better luck next time, I guess?”  
  
Ransom continues to squint and absently thumb his jawline, but Shitty’s honestly not really holding out hope anymore. “Holtzy, who’s that chick that’s friends with Korina?”  
  
Holster looks up. “Honestly, dude? I was too busy looking at Korina.”  
  
“Bro, same.” The two high five and Shitty kind of wants to take back the compliment he gave to Jack for coming up with this idea.  
  
“No, but for real,” Ransom continues, “she was kinda turned away, but I think she was Asian? Definitely small. Korina could probably lift her with one hand.”  
  
“Crush her between her thighs.”  
  
“Bro, that’d be hot. Korina with another girl?”  
  
“Bro. Nice.”  
  
“Don’t be gross,” Shitty interjects without thinking.  
  
To his surprise, they look a little sheepish. “Ah, sorry,” Ransom mumbles as he turns back to stare at his Excel spreadsheet. Shitty can physically feel himself soften in response. He crosses his arms on the slightly sticky tabletop and pillows his head on them. There’s a bit of pensive quiet punctuated only by the drag-squeak of Holster’s highlighter in the textbook he definitely won’t be able to resell to the campus bookstore now. Shitty watches Holster pull the blue ink across some formula before he speaks.  
  
“You know, they say just highlighting is one of the most passive ways to study. Like, it’s really kind of shit for retention.”  
  
Holster’s eyes don’t stop their slow back-and-forth flicking across the page when he responds, “I don’t know, should you really be talking to me about retention when you can’t remember your hookup from last night?”  
  
“Fuckin’ harsh, dude. You cut me deep.” Shitty takes a breath and moves his eyes away from Holster’s bowed head. “And for your information, we didn’t hook up.”  
  
“Ah,” Ransom pipes up, looking up from whatever he’d been reading on his phone, “so this is more like chasing a lost opportunity, eh?”  
  
“Eh.”  
  
“Eh.”  
  
“Shut up.”  
  
“And no, I wouldn’t say that. It isn’t…it isn’t really like that.”  
  
Something in his voice must penetrate Ransom and Holster’s normally oblivious bubble because now they’re both looking at him and then at each other, doing some sort of D-man telepathy. They’ve known each other, what? Two months? Fuckin’ creepy.  
  
Their eyes swivel back to him like some honest-to-god horror movie bullshit before Holster speaks, “Not like what, man?”  
  
And oh boy, here it is. Guess this is happening. Shitty had admittedly been kind of putting this off, but honestly? They’re doing him a solid with this. Besides, all the urgency was drained out of him by disappointment and the sunlight slipping through the kitchen’s curtain-less window. Shitty’s run out of excuses to not have this conversation.  
  
Well, he supposes fear is always a valid excuse to not have this conversation, but ever since Shitty had first told his dad to fuck off when he was fifteen, he’s never considered it a sufficient motivator. So, here goes.  
  
“Like, it’s not a sex thing.”  
  
Ransom’s eyes take on a small glimmer of comprehension but confusion remains furrowed at his brow. “Oh. Do you not like girls?”  
  
That response is promising, but Shitty still hems a bit, “No, no, I like girls…as far as I know. Just—just not _that way_ , you know? Sexually.”  
  
Ransom and Holster’s eyebrows have both quirked a bit in an oddly similar manner, but their stares remain relatively blank, awaiting—or maybe sensing?—further explanation.  
  
“Ah, well…” And Christ, Shitty should be better at this by now. Yet here he is, sitting with his thumb up his ass, per usual. Some days, Shitty thinks he’s actually good at talking about stuff like this. Like, he’s studying to get a degree in it, right? Kind of? He has some bonafide and certified Knowledge at this point, yeah? But, no matter how many conversations he has, or classes he takes, or how casual he tries to be, something about this will always be difficult.  
  
“I, uh. Don’t really do…the ‘sexual attraction’ thing, like…in general?” Exhale. “At least I don’t think so,” he hastily qualifies. Inhale. Exhale.  
  
Inhale.  
  
“I’m asexual.” Exhale. Inhale. “Er, I mean, there’s a spectrum and I’m definitely on it. Not sure where, but. Yeah.” Exhale. A shrug with a certain nonchalance he doesn’t really feel. “It’s a thing. Y’know. Whatever.” Inhale. Hold.  
  
“Ah.” Holster’s eyes have returned from their quarter-lidded surprise back to their regular half-lidded existence, but there’s still a pinch to his brow. “Should we, like, not talk about sex around you?”  
  
Exhale.  
  
“Nah, bro, that’s totally fine. I’m not even opposed to the idea of having sex, and I still have, like, a libido? I just…don’t really feel like it. Haven’t _ever_ really felt like it.”  
  
Something in Ransom’s brow smooths out, and he’ll probably want to ask more questions later, but for now, he just says, “Oh. Cool, bro.” Ransom’s eyes drift somewhere past Shitty’s shoulder in thought. “I feel like we should, like, cuddle now. Or something.”  
  
Shitty laughs, a little dizzy with relief.  
  
Holster slams his book shut. “I’m like, 300% done with this chapter anyway. I’m just gonna wing it on the test.”  
  
“So you’re down?”  
  
“Absolutely, bro.”  
  
“Sweet. Shits?”  
  
Shitty runs his fingers through his hair, borderline giddy grin flaring the ends of his mustache. He can do this, he thinks, him and Jack. Drain some of the toxicity out of frat culture one oddly endearing bro at a time.  
  
“Queue up the Netflix, man.”  
  
***  
  
Larissa’s spending her hungover afternoon in one of Samwell’s bright, open studio spaces when she gets another now-familiar nagging feeling about the night before. It tugs a little bit somewhere in the vicinity of her left hand, so she twitches it towards the palette in her right just to give it something to do.  
  
Blue and yellow swirl together under her trowel but it’s not as calming as it normally is.  
  
_A little more yellow._ Maybe she’s overthinking it?

 _Ugh, now more blue._ It wouldn’t be the first time.

 _Maybe a little bit of that silvery stuff I just bought?_ Yes, but the first time over something like this.

 _You know that’s a lie._ Okay, maybe. Hey, aren’t you supposed to be mixing?  
  
Her resounding sigh does little to fill the empty space created by the high, sunlit ceiling.  
  
***  
  
Shitty is sprawled over Ransom and Holster’s laps, one eye blearily taking in Dorothy gesticulating at the newspaper in her hands. There seems to have been a mix-up when she sent Rose to place an ad for her. Or something. He’s not entirely sure because his blinks have been getting longer and longer.  
  
They’re on their fifth episode of _Golden Girls_ when Ransom gives a short little hum apropos of nothing. Holster gives a questioning hum back, not moving his eyes from the screen.  
  
“Oh,” Ransom drawls, slow and heavy, “I think I remember Korina’s friend’s name. Larissa, I think? Didn’t catch a last name but ‘Larissa’ isn’t super common.”  
  
“D’you get her major?” Holster’s normally resonant bass is gravelly with drowsiness. “Sometimes that’s just as good as a last name, tbh.”  
  
“Bro, don’t say ‘tee-bee-eych’ out loud.”  
  
“I do what I want, bro.”  
  
The conversation lulls. Blanche says something about Greek sailors.  
  
“So did you?”  
  
“What?”  
  
“Get her major.”  
  
“Mm. Oh yeah. Art, I think?”  
  
***  
  
LARISSA. FUCKING. DUAN. LAR-D.  
  
JESUS.  
  
After their impromptu nap, Ransom finds Korina’s friend’s Facebook profile and—yup. The picture is an extreme close-up and there’s paint swiped across her cheekbone, but it’s the same eyes. Hell, same eye _liner_.  
  
She’s really _really_ beautiful.  
  
Shitty just kind of stares for so long that Ransom clears his throat and prompts, “So? Is it her?”  
  
“Fucki—‘is it—?’ _Yes, it’s her!_ Fuck.”  
  
“Y’alright there, Shits?” Holster’s got his chin in his hand, eyes as unimpressed as ever, but the corner of his mouth tics up, damn him.  
  
“I’m fine, I’m just—fuck.”  
  
“You’re ‘just fuck’?”  
  
“Yeah Rans, I’m ‘just fuck’ing too hungover for this right now.” Shitty scrubs at his face and manages to come back to himself a bit. Giddiness begins to seep in again; today’s been an emotional rollercoaster and it’s only 3PM.  
  
Shitty feels a smile creeping up his cheeks and he turns it towards Ransom and Holster. “Really, guys, thanks. This has—you’ve both been really great.” And then he makes his way to the door, hands fidgeting to strip; even this small amount of clothing feels like _too much_ with the sudden adrenaline spike.  
  
“Got your back,” he hears Ransom call after him, and Shitty allows himself a little private smile before he takes the steps two at a time back to Jack’s room.  
  
***  
  
“Jaqueline. Jackabelle! JACK!” Shitty tears into Jack’s room, denim vest already off.  
  
He’s working on his boxers before Jack realizes what he’s doing. There’s a strangled sound of protest, but Shitty’s already flopped face-first, dick-second onto Jack’s flannel comforter.  
  
Shitty hears a sigh of resignation from his place on Jack’s pillow, but there are bigger things to address.  
  
“Jack, I found her.”  
  
“Found—?”  
  
“ _Her_ , Jack! From the kegster! I have a name and everything! ‘Larissa Duan.’ Fuck.”  
  
“Oh.”  
  
Now, Shitty’s rather used to monosyllabic responses from Jack, but this isn’t his normal, Awkward-French-Canadian-athlete-who-does-not-know-how-to-interact-verbally shtick. This is different. Suspicious, even.  
  
Shitty turns his face to get some sort of visual context for the response and catches an indecipherable expression.  
  
“Jack? What’s up, bud?”  
  
Jack’s eyes are darting around somewhat guiltily before he starts, haltingly, “Well, euh…” He scratches the side of his face. “Thing is, euh, I? Actually know her?”  
  
Shitty bolts right the fuck up. What the fuck?  
  
“See, Murray and Hall wanted me to meet her? The work study program sent them her name.”  
  
“What.”  
  
“Haha. I’m actually the one who invited her to the kegster? Thought she might want to meet some of the guys.”  
   
“WHAT.”  
  
“She’s…set to be the new team manager?”  
  
“ _WHAT?!?!!”  
  
_ “Haha. Sorry?”  
  
“Jaaaaaaack, I can’t even be mad at you, my beautiful bro. I’m just so damn proud you’re meeting people. Also, I’m in shock. Anger pending.” Shitty feigns swiping a tear from his eye as Jack looks on in amusement, seemingly not fearing Shitty’s future wrath at all. Asshole.  
  
Quiet reigns in Jack’s stuffy bedroom and Shitty stares somewhere past his knees.  
  
Jack finally speaks, “Are you really okay? I don’t know if I’ve ever seen you this at a loss for words.”  
  
Shitty finally breaks his staring contest with a dust bunny under Jack’s desk. “No, yeah brah, I’m dandy. Just…wondering where I go from here? I never really got past ‘ _find her,’_ y’know.”  
  
“Can’t say I really do.”  
  
“I think even you might find someone who makes you forget to plan ahead for a bit, Jacky-boy.”  
  
“Haha. Maybe.” He fiddles with his pen, but doesn’t turn back to his homework.  
  
Shitty mindlessly smooths his mustache. “But for reals, I guess I just…wait? What do you think?”  
  
“I think I’m maybe not the person to be asking.” It’s not even self-deprecating, that’s just Jack.  
  
“What? You’re my best bro and I value your opinion on _all matters_ , big and small!”  
  
“Haha. Thanks, Shits.”  
  
“Don’t even thank me, this is standard best bro stuff. So? Thoughts? Questions, comments?”  
  
Jack leans back in his casually-expensive, crazy ergonomic desk chair. Even with the high price tag, it still creaks under his weight. Or maybe that’s just the Haus’s ancient floorboards.  
  
“Maybe…just sit back? For a bit? She’s supposed to come to one of the practices this week. Talk to her then.” He cracks a small grin, “Make sure you weren’t just high out of your mind.”  
  
“For your information, Jack, I am my best judge of character when I am ‘high out of my mind,’ _thank you very much_. But okay.”  
  
Shitty leans back on his hands. Jack is completely unfazed by how this now puts his very naked front in full view. This is why Shitty loves him.  
  
Shitty points an accusing finger at Jack, “You will pay for this, though. I expect full ‘bed in the buff’ privileges because you apparently weren’t listening when I was describing my kegster soulmate.”  
  
“Not my fault you didn’t actually describe anything about her physical appearance.”  
  
“Wha—of course I did! I said she was beautiful, ethereal, a stunning pinnacle of woman, human, and pong player! Who else could it _be_ , Jack?! Who cares about things like eye and hair color when I can give you the _essence_ of a person.”  
  
Jack squints critically at him, “Are you _still_ high?”  
  
“High on life, brah.” He shifts so he’s lying back against Jack’s pillow. “But okay. Wait for practice, play it cool, easy peasy.”  
  
***  
  
Larissa steps back. Then steps back some more. It’s been drilled into her by her professors—only a few weeks in to her courses—that stepping back from her work sometimes, literally and figuratively, should be an important part of her process.  
  
She’s about twenty feet away before she really hones back in on the painting. It’s not very large; she usually likes to work bigger but hey, canvases are expensive and it was supposed to be more gesture and stress relief than anything else.  
  
Still, she thinks there might be something here that she could use for a more polished piece. The painting across the room is far from perfect, but there are concepts there that, if brought to her preferred scale, could be worth exploring.  
  
At first glance, one might assume the painting is mostly a dark star field—the flat angles of rooftops, the figures perched in the corner, an afterthought kind of sky. But no, while the environment may be inky blackness, the painting is actually russet-gold warmth, shot through with cheerful blue. The suggestion of a streetlamp casts a glow on the corner figures. Other streetlamp-adjacent lights dot the roofline, but their aura is dimmer compared to one surrounding the rooftop vagabonds.    
  
A boy and a girl, shoulder to shoulder. There’s something not unlike haze, a curl of smoke leaving the pair and moving out into the night, flinted and organic like foliage.  
  
Larissa takes it in for a moment, before stepping back towards her palette. Taking a smaller knife, she puts a mark of turquoise beside the guy, at the smoke’s origin.  
  
You can’t really tell it’s a bong, but Larissa knows. She smiles, and starts to pack up for the day.  
  
  
  
***  
  
Monday arrives, along with practice, and Shitty is a mess of nerves. Jack’s walked him through some simple breathing exercises, which has been an interesting reversal in their relationship.  
  
“I’m cool, we’re cool, everything is cool. Nothin’ to fuckin’ worry about.” Except that Lardo had left the morning after, hadn’t she? And there was probably a reason for that and somehow Shitty doubts it was a pressing morning engagement.  
  
“It really will be fine, Shits. Just focus on practice.” Jack assures. They’re walking to Faber and Shitty’s hands are shoved so deep in his pockets, he’s surprised he hasn’t burst through the bottoms to touch bare thigh.  
  
“Right, right. Practice. The practice that Lardo might be at. Where I’m going to talk to her. Without the comforting cushion of _any_ inebriating substances— _should be totally stellar,_ ” Shitty rushes out, manic.  
  
“Haha, what? I’m sure you’ll be fine, Shits.” Jack gives Shitty the kind of masculine pat on the back which should be awkward or distant, but Shitty knows it’s genuine coming from him. “Besides,” Jack adds, “you’re really not all that different sober.”  
  
They enter by Memorial Hall. No Lardo.  
  
They walk into the locker room, avoiding the ‘S’ on the way to their stalls. No Lardo.  
  
They tape their sticks and get their gear on before sleepily filing out onto the ice. No Lardo.  
  
Warm up laps. Stretching. Passing drills. Play runs. A round of suicides. Announcements from Hall and Murray. Dressing down and showers and—.  
  
No Lardo.  
  
It's a bit anticlimactic, really.  
  
Jack splits off after practice to go to his 8:30 lecture, but Shitty doesn’t have class until 10:30, so he trudges back to the Haus in a silence only broken by the occasional footsteps of other trudging students.  
  
Shitty supposes he’s not really surprised that Lardo was a no-show. Given the choice, Shitty wouldn’t choose Monday for a 5 a.m. wakeup. He’d save that shit for Tuesday at least, because Tuesdays are usually pretty much crap anyway, so might as well consolidate, right?  
  
~~It's probably not because of him.~~  
  
Shitty drags himself up the Haus stairs. He would typically use this window of time to do some reading or finish an assignment last minute, but today he walks straight to Jack’s room and collapses without even bothering to take his shoes off. He toes them off without removing his face from where it is becoming permanently melded with Jack’s pillow and sighs. A nap is sounding pretty good, and Jack’s bed has always been comfier than his.  
  
He sets an alarm for 10:15. When it goes off, he only gets up to strip to his boxers before climbing right back in.  
  
***  
  
Larissa doesn’t really know why she didn’t go to the hockey practice today. Sure, it was Monday morning and 5 a.m. is pretty ungodly early, but she’s usually the type of person to get things out of the way when she has the opportunity.  
  
She didn’t go this morning, and she can at least admit to herself that the reason went beyond wanting to sleep in.  
  
She stares at The Painting, which now sits on her dorm desk. She felt compelled to bring it back from the studio. Something about not wanting anyone else to see it. Not yet.

 

Well, okay, maybe someone could see it, she thinks as her roommate Robin trundles in and drops her bag by the door. Robin's a chemical engineering major but she draws as a hobby. Together, the two of them have filled their tiny, shared space with originals. Robin reminds Larissa not to take herself too seriously.

 

Robin's gorgeous in a swarthy, Bohemian way; long, artfully tousled waves, black lashes and brows, dark circles underneath darker eyes. Robin's one of the prettiest people Larissa knows.

 

She's also one of the grossest.

 

Case in point: Robin promptly takes off her sweatshirt—it’s 85 degrees out, ew?—under which she is wearing only a sports bra. She whips the sports bra off too and proceeds to swing her arms around.

 

Larissa watches this display for a bit (and only gets momentarily distracted by Robin's frankly very nice chest) before Robin looks up and notices Larissa's questioning eyebrow.

 

"Airing out," she offers as explanation.

 

"Ah. You know, you could also just wear a lighter top or something."

 

"Nah. Haven't done laundry yet. This is all I've got." They've been at school for three weeks and apparently Robin has yet to take advantage of the—totally free!—laundry room in the basement of their hall.

 

Larissa watches Robin pick up a discarded peasant blouse and use it to wipe her pits and bra line.

 

Larissa doesn't mind the mess on the floor. They both said they were pretty chill with clutter when they filled out the roommate agreement the RA passed out after the inaugural hall meeting. This, though, is something else. Larissa wrinkles her nose, but says nothing. It doesn't really bother her all _that_ much and she supposes she'll have to get used to it given the state of the hockey Haus.

 

Besides, this is nothing compared to the time Larissa watched Robin scrape black polish off her nails with her teeth and then, not finding any floss handy, attempt to get the resulting black flecks between her incisors using one of her own hairs instead.  
  
"Oh hey cool, is that a new painting?"

 

Larissa leans back and shrugs, "Nah, it's been here the whole time."

 

"What, really?"

 

"Pfffft, no. Yes, it's new. I did it Saturday but I kind of didn't want it to sit in the studio."     

 

She drops the peasant blouse _cum_ sweat rag onto the mountain of dirty clothes that probably has a hamper under it, "Oh. Why?"

 

Larissa lets her head drop back between her shoulder blades. "Hmmmm. I don't actually know? Do you ever have art that feels personal but you didn't intend it that way so you can't really put your finger on why it feels personal?"

 

"Mm. No," Robin says from where she's rooting through the mini fridge. "Hey, is this your cheese?"

 

"It's not yours?" Larissa asks, derailed and somewhat alarmed.

 

"No no, I guess it is. I was just making sure it wasn't yours."

 

"Huh??"

 

"Never mind. So. The painting?" she says, gesturing to the canvas with a square of Tillamook cheese.

 

"Ah. Yeah. I'm usually not super touchy about sharing my art, especially if I don't think it looks like complete crap."

 

"Which this doesn't."

 

"Exactly."

 

"Hmm. So what's the deal, y'think?"

 

Larissa pauses, unsure how much she wants to reveal. "It's kind of.... autobiographical?"

 

That seems to get Robin's attention and she steps closer towards the painting, squinting. Larissa suddenly feels a little itchy.

 

Robin's eyes light up a bit and she turns a quirked grin onto Larissa, the hunk of cheddar in her mouth left unchewed for the moment (there’s definitely some in her teeth because she’s a disgusting human being). _Oh no_. Larissa's only known Robin for a few short weeks but she already fears that look.  
  
(It’s the same look she gave her on move-in day when she caught Larissa slipping a variety pack of condoms into the top drawer of her tiny dorm dresser. “Nice,” was all Robin had said at the time.)

 

"Who's the guy?" Robin inquires, deviousness written in all her features. Damn her perceptiveness. 

 

"No one. Just a guy I met at that party Friday."

 

"Hockey guy?"

 

"Probably? He has a room in the Haus so I assume so. He could have just gone in some rando's room, I guess." The thought really hadn’t occurred to Larissa, but she supposes it’s possible.

 

"Hm, I've heard mixed reviews of hockey guys. That they're an acquired taste." Robin's expression, somehow, gets even more mischievous. "Find a flavor you like, Ms. Duan?"

 

"Ugh. You think you're witty. You're not." Larissa says, even as she's grinning and pushing Robin's face away from where it's invading Larissa's personal space. Robin cackles, unperturbed. She’s still shirtless and Larissa kind of envies her confidence. And maybe her unreasonably perky C-cup. Larissa’s pretty happy with her body most days, but _damn_ those look like fun.  
  
Robin rips another chunk of cheese off the square and proceeds to chew thoughtfully. “Hey, so are you taking that manager job? If he’s on the team, you’re gonna see him.”  
  
“Yeah, I guess.”  
  
Robin pops the last bit into her mouth, crinkles up the wrapper, and throws it in the absurdly small housing-provided trashcan. She wipes her probably cheese-greasy fingers on her jeans. “So that’s probably a good thing? It means you’ll know someone on the team besides Jack Zimmermann. (I hear he did, like, crack, by the way.)”  
  
Larissa snorts, “Somehow, I highly doubt Jack’s done crack.”  
  
“Yeah it seemed kind of unlikely to me too, and I don’t even really know the guy,” Robin shrugs. “Plus, even if he did, he couldn’t do it now because, like, don’t you get drug tested all the time as an athlete?”  
  
Larissa full-on laughs now, “I don’t know, but I definitely smoked a lot of weed with the guy from Friday.”  
  
“Hmmm, so maybe not a hockey guy, then?”  
  
“Hm. Maybe.”  
  
“Well,” Robin starts, tugging her sports bra back on, “I guess if you were nervous about seeing him again, there’s a chance he’s not even on the team, so you wouldn’t have to worry.”  
  
Larissa idly watches as Robin adjusts the bra, reaching in to lift her boobs one by one so they sit higher in the fabric. “Yeah. I guess.”  
  
Robin tugs her hair from where it’d been trapped under the racer-back. She eyes Larissa. “Unless you _did_ want to see him again?” She tilts her head towards The Painting and lifts her eyebrows meaningfully.  
  
And yup, The Painting still sits there, damning evidence that it is. Larissa turns and takes it in again. There’s really not anything special about it. She’s just being dumb.  
  
Larissa jolts and swivels back to glare at Robin, “Stop doing that therapist thing. You’re not deep, either.”  
  
Robin laughs—probably at Larissa—before finally, _finally_ grabbing her overflowing laundry basket to haul it down to the basement.  
  
She still doesn’t put on a shirt.  
  
***  
  
Tuesday morning dawns cold and dim. Jack wakes Shitty up, per usual, but he does seem a little more sympathetic towards Shitty's grumbling today.

 

Yesterday, Jack had come back to the Haus after lunch and found Shitty passed out in his bed, unicorn-print boxers bunched up around his thighs and drool soaking the pillow. Shitty wasn't fully conscious at the time, but he can very clearly imagine Jack's long-suffering sigh and affectionately sympathetic gaze.

 

Er, well, maybe Shitty's being too optimistic, because Jack did proceed to rip the comforter out from under Shitty, sending him tumbling to the floor.

 

"What the hell?!" Shitty had yelped.

 

"I feel like I should be asking you that, Shits." Jack had replied.

 

And then there was more talk and yada yada; _the point_ is that Jack was there for Shitty like he always is but...in his very Jack way. Shitty loves him for it, but his nose still twinges occasionally from hitting the hardwood of Jack's floor face-first.

 

Walking to Faber is both better and worse this morning. Better, because it's colder this morning, which serves to make Jack Extra Canadian, which is one of Shitty's favorite things. Worse, because the probability that Lardo (Larissa?) will be at practice today has gone up.

 

"A flannel, Shits? It's barely below 50," Jack chirps.

 

"Cut the crap, Jack, you're even using Fahrenheit; I've met your mom, you can't hide the fact that you're half-American," Shitty chirps right back.

 

Jack gives an indulgent half-smile, like Shitty has said something particularly dim-witted, and _god Shitty loves him for it._

 

Trading chirps with Jack is enough to get his mind off of his impending mental doom, and if Shitty wasn't fully aware of Jack's charming inability to bend a social situation to his will, he would think Jack was distracting him on purpose.   
  
***  
  
Larissa arrives early (this _is_ a job, after all), having managed to wake up before her 4am alarm because of nerves. She had grumbled and trudged down to the floor bathroom to get ready without waking Robin, suddenly too tired to feel the same nerves that had kept her up. She sleepily applied her eyeliner—both out of habit and in an attempt to not look half-dead—next to another girl on the floor, Nadia, who was probably only just now getting ready for bed.  
  
Despite Larissa’s best efforts, Robin still rolled over as she left, murmured an almost unintelligible “have fun,” and promptly went back to sleep.  
  
After she arrived, Hall had given her a tour of Faber while Murray had to do something to set up for practice. They went through a locker room (“Don’t step on the ‘S’; boys’ll fine you”), equipment room (“Ah, looks like we might, uh, need a step-stool for in here?”), equipment maintenance rooms (“Best to just let the boys worry about their own sticks and skates.”), and a players’ lounge (“Well, I’m not gonna sugarcoat this: you’re going to have to drag Birkholtz outta here.”).  
  
Larissa had never actually been in Faber before; she got the sense that the student ambassador who led the tour she took in high school didn’t really care for hockey and Samwell’s team especially. She’d seen the windows of course, glinting in the sun and nearly blinding you if you let your eyes wander too close in the morning. Actually seeing the dawn light spilling through, though, reflecting off the ice and warming the wooden bleachers, turning the interior a soft rose gold, well. Larissa has to admit that it’s really something.  
  
So now Larissa’s here. Sitting on the bench as Murray explains how the stat roster works with all its columns labeled things like “goals,” “total pts,” and “ass” (she thinks it’s funny that Jack appears to have one of the higher tally counts in that column).  
  
They’re interrupted partway through Murray explaining what some of the more opaque abbreviations mean by laughter from the little hallway that leads from the ice to Faber’s network of back rooms.  Familiar laughter.  
  
Oh, god.  
  
Larissa straightens up a bit and tries not to show any of her internal panic externally. The smug, mom portion of Larissa’s brain decides to wake up again just to point out that for all her talk, here she is, getting flustered by a guy.  
  
God, she wishes she were like Robin: gorgeous, self-assured, and most importantly, back in their room, asleep.  
  
There’s an agonizing length of time between when the laughter first became audible and its source becomes visible. Maybe the tunnel echoes? Murray doesn’t seem to notice anything and continues his instruction after only a short pause. Larissa doesn’t really hear him.  
  
Skates don’t really make much noise on the mat-covered floor of the rink. Larissa almost wishes they did, just so this moment could have the same drama in its audio as it does in her head.  
  
Larissa’s never really been one for drama. Although she’s definitely…less chill than she maybe lets on, that’s never really translated to hysterics and hyperbole. So she’s flustered, yes, maybe even fretting a little bit, but Larissa Duan is most definitely not _freaking out_.  
  
Because there’s Shitty. And it’s…fine. It’s actually perfectly okay. He’s laughing with Jack as he comes into view, and as they clear the overhang of the tunnel, he’s lit up in the same morning glow as the rest of the stadium. It’s not the same gold that washes across him in The Painting, but it’s gold nonetheless.  
  
He’s handsome, she supposes, in the way that the dads on ‘70s sitcoms are handsome. He’s younger than them, of course, but it’s the same aristocratic nose, same lily-white complexion, same kind eyes. Same mustache.  
  
No, the fact that Shitty’s handsome doesn’t really surprise her. What surprises her is that it doesn’t fucking matter.  
  
A lot of that night might be spotty, but Larissa knows how to handle her substances, okay? So although she can’t recall a lot of specifics, “warmth” is a term that springs to mind, despite having spent a good portion of the night shivering under some ancient flea market blanket. She definitely remembers feeling comfortable, even in a frat party full of strangers. She remembers laughing, and feeling safe, and talking. Talking about herself, even, which is typically not really something she does voluntarily.  
  
Shitty may or may not be anything special in the grand scheme of things, but it would seem that in the less-grand scheme of Larissa Duan, he is.  
  
Jack and Shitty have reached the ice now, sticks in hand and helmets under their arms. They still haven’t noticed her, but Larissa is content to watch Shitty laugh and Jack send soft half-smiles back.  
  
She reflects on how, upon meeting Jack, she had felt immediate kinship. Here was a person who didn’t always have the best relationship with words, especially of the personal variety. Here was a person worried about others’ perception of him, a person sometimes afraid of his own nature. And here was someone who seemed to forget all of that around Shitty.  
  
Yeah, Larissa relates.  
  
A small knot of anxiety remains resting somewhere above her pelvic bone—she has _so many_ first impressions to still worry about—but something definitely uncurls inside of her.  
  
Shitty looks up and finally sees her, and Larissa is able to smile, unafraid.  
  
***  
  
_Ah, fuck. Ah shit. Jesus H. Jiminy Christmas Christ. On toast.  
  
Good golly.  
  
_ Welp, Shitty’s boned. He had let himself get so distracted with Jack’s chirpy morning demeanor that he’s _absolutely fucking blindsided_ by Lardo just sitting on the bench, looking over a clipboard with Murray. She sends a smile his way, cool as ever, and Shitty experiences about seven different emotions all at once. They wash over him like a wave, pierce him like an arrow, creep up like vines from his fingers and toes and the ends of his eyelashes.  
  
It’s delightful. It’s invigorating.  
  
It’s terrifying.  
  
But far be it from Shitty to suddenly disregard his policy of laughing in Fear’s smug bitch-ass face. Jack smirks sideways at him, _the asshole_ , but Shitty ignores it as he gives a few leisurely pushes against the ice, so he can glide ever-so-casually to the opposite boards.  
  
Her eyes flick up at him as he approaches but never really lose their focus on Murray or the clipboard between them. Shitty leans his hip on the board and observes patiently. Murray wraps up whatever he’d been explaining and turns to Shitty.  
  
“Ah, Knight. This is Larissa, she’s training to be the new manager.”  
  
Shitty takes an invisible breath before smiling easily and shifting his gaze to Lardo, “We’ve met.”  
  
Lardo gives one of those sharp smiles with soft eyes that Shitty’s concerned he’ll never become accustomed to. If Faber hadn’t already been drenched in sunlight, he would have sworn the sky opened up. Which is cheesy as all hell and Shitty kind of can’t believe he actually just thought that.  
  
“Oh, good,” Murray’s voice cuts in, “you and Jack can help get her settled in with the rest of the team.” Shitty can _feel_ the corners of his eyes crinkling with the push of his smile. “But for now,” Murray glances at his watch, “you’re about two minutes behind when you should have started warming up. Let’s move, let’s move!”  
  
Murray’s Coach Voice is about as good as a bodily shove to get you moving, so Shitty heaves his left side from where it’d been lounging on the boards to go join the stream of sleepy guys making laps around the rink. He skates backwards a few paces, keeping his eyes locked on Lardo’s, before sliding his helmet towards center ice and turning to start his warm up in earnest.  
  
Murray starts setting up practice cones and rolls his eyes.  
  
***  
  
The practice is great, actually. It’s not the shallowest of learning curves, but it’s nothing Larissa can’t handle. Probably.  
  
Jack comes over and talks to her for a bit and some of the biggest guys on the team (for whom Jack provides the labels “Ransom” and “Holster”) start doing something extra bro-y on the ice. It's all a little new, but Larissa’s willing to admit she’s got a bro side herself so it’s less of a culture shock and more of a culture poke. Or something.  
  
A few of the other players stop by between drills to introduce themselves and they’re mostly quite polite and none of them act gross. They end practice with a scrimmage so Larissa can start spotting the things she’s supposed to be tallying on the sheet in front of her.  
  
And overall, hockey is…fun? Larissa’s having a good time training her eye to follow the puck and keeping up with the fast pace. There seems to be approximately zero space for rest or slacking, which, who wouldn’t admire that in a sport? Larissa’s from Boston, okay, she knows about the Bruins, but that doesn’t mean she’s ever seen a game. She took a class trip to a Red Sox game once. Keeping it non-contact for a school trip, she supposes.  
  
Most of the guys on the ice seem different during the scrimmage. A lot of the cheerful guys who greeted her pull a complete 180, all sour faces and furrowed brows. Jack becomes more, well, Jack: laser-focused and intense (he makes a goofy face when he shoots, though, she notes). If she didn’t know any better, she’d think Shitty was the only one having fun.  
  
Because Shitty _looks_ like he’s having fun. He’s still got a slanted smile splitting his face over his mouth guard, eyebrows arched and expressive. She hears a colorful collection of insults and curses as he whizzes past the bench. He’s still focused, and still knows exactly where Jack needs him, but nothing seems to spoil his good humor.  
  
Jack scores, and finally some of the other guys are smiling. Shitty gets impossibly brighter, laughter ringing out to the ceiling beams followed by a cry of “fuckin’ beaut!” There are hugs and ass slaps and while Larissa may be a bit of a bro herself, she’s never understood _that_ particular dichotomy.  
  
_Hockey is fun_ , Larissa thinks, _but Shitty actually makes it look fun._  
  
She makes a mental note to drag Robin to a game.  
  
***  
  
The thing is, Shitty’s decided that Lardo is going to be a Great Thing. Shitty’s had a handful of Great Things in his life—his parents’ divorce, hockey, the day he figured out he could grow a mustache, Jack—and Shitty’s pretty certain that Lardo will make the ranks.  
  
After Hall calls it, he skates over to her, tugging his helmet off along the way.  
  
“Hey, you stickin’ around for a bit?”  
  
“Yeah, I think I get a debriefing.”  
  
“Cool.” Shitty runs a hand through his sweaty hair, managing to only grimace a little. “I’m, uh. I’m gonna shower. See you in a bit?”  
  
“Sure.”  
  
Shitty stands under the showerhead, trying not to scrub too hard at his scalp. He passes some of his cleansing conditioner to Jack because without Shitty’s help, Jack would use sulfate-filled cheap shit and nothing would ruin Jack’s broad shoulders more than a layer of dandruff.  
  
For someone who’s supposedly rushing, he sure spends a lot of time spacing out and grinning at the tiled shower wall. He finally manages to get his act together and rinse off before reaching for a towel.  
  
Usually, Shitty prefers to air dry a bit. He still towels off to avoid the unpleasant sensory experience of water clinging to his skin—it’s honestly a miracle he can stand playing hockey with the amount of sweat it produces. Even with a towel, there’s always lingering moisture in his pubes and various crevasses and other impolite places that he would rather not contribute to some humid microclimate in his boxer briefs, thank you very fucking much.  
  
Today, though… Today there’s a date with destiny that he just can’t postpone. So he does some unfortunate swinging motions—much to the chagrin of the entire Samwell Men’s Hockey team—in an attempt to speed-dry his genitals. It sort of works, and the sensation of clothes tugging over damp skin is not nearly as horrible as it normally would be. Shitty counts it as a good omen.  
  
He steps back into the rink, feeling fresh with the menthol and fig of his bath products, and scans for Lardo. She’s not there. There’s only a brief moment of self-deprecating panic where Shitty assumes that she was lying and must have left because he was being weird, before he rapidly rationalizes that there’s a good chance she’s wherever the coaches are, or perhaps near the entrance, or any number of totally reasonable places where Lardo could have gone. In fact, it makes more sense that she’s _not_ still on the bench. _Yeah. Deep breath. That’s good.  
  
_ He wanders down Mem hall until he pops out into Faber’s surprisingly nondescript lobby. There, leaning next to a posting of open skate times, is Lardo. She’s fiddling with the zipper of her jacket, and once she gets it pulled up halfway, her eyes raise and catch sight of Shitty. He takes a moment as he approaches to just exhale and smile.  
  
“Sup, Lards. This seem like an okay gig?”  
  
“Yeah.” She pretends to think for a moment. “Guys’re a little much, but I’ll manage.” She says with a lopsided grin.  
  
“Fuck yeah you’ll manage, manager!! And as the new manager, and therefore the newest member of the SMH family, it is my duty and pleasure to invite you to our fuckin s’wawesome group chat.” Shitty tugs his phone from his back pocket. “Lay them digits on me.”  
  
Lardo laughs and tells him after mumbling, “I can’t believe you just said ‘lay them digits on me.’” Shitty then informs her, “By the way, you can’t escape ‘Lardo’ now. That’s a fuckin great nickname and I would like to personally thank whoever thought of it. I’m sure you gathered from practice, but nicknames are kind of thing. Except if you’re Jack. Because he's lame.”  
  
“Wow, so lame.”  
  
“Right?? Mind if I grab a picture?” Shitty lifts his phone and wiggles it. “For the contact?”  
  
“Ah man, you gotta ambush me when I’ve been up since 4:00? Not cool, bro. I expect a retake when I’ve had more than four hours of sleep.” She shoots a genuine (but yeah, kind of sleepy) smile towards Shitty’s phone camera. He scrambles to open the camera and take the shot. At the shutter sound, Lardo’s eyes shift back to Shitty’s face. “Good?”  
  
Shitty examines the picture. The slanting sunlight coming in through the main entrance’s glass doors is nice, but it does emphasize the tired shadows under Lardo’s eyes. Her hair’s kinda smooshed on one side, her eyeliner is uneven, and it’s posed a little too close to an ID photo.  
  
“S’wawesome,” Shitty says definitively, saving it to his phone.  
  
***  
  
Larissa watches Shitty smile down at his phone before pocketing it. He looks back up and asks, “You got any plans right now?”  
  
See, Larissa told herself that she wasn’t going to date her first semester, at least. And maybe not second semester either because Samwell’s study abroad program was pretty great and Larissa was eyeing it for fall semester her sophomore year. But Shitty seems…nice. He’s fun, approachable, cute, understanding, comfortable…and if nothing else, Larissa could see him as a friend.  
  
So she says, “Nah, I’m free. Why, got something in mind?”  
  
“Only that someone needs to show you Annie’s _secret menu_.” He wiggles his eyebrows like it’s an innuendo, but Larissa instinctively knows it’s just for the love of a good joke and not an actual proposition.  
  
_God, coffee does sound good.  
_  
“God, coffee does sound good.” She rubs the bridge of her nose tiredly. “Lead the way, Shits.”  
  
“It’s gonna fuckin’ _blow your mind_ , brah,” Shitty enthuses, leading Larissa out into the small courtyard in front of Faber.  
  
Larissa squints at the sun that’s peeking out through cracks in the overcast, “Good, ‘cause at this point, I think it _will_ take a literal explosion to wake me up.”  
  
“Aw dude, you’re in luck, they got these fuckin’ sweet espresso bombs? Totally the only reason I made it through stats with motherfuckin’ Mahoney.”  
  
That gets Larissa’s attention. “Really? Mahoney doesn’t seem that bad.”  
  
“Yeah, _at first_. But then all those fuckin tangents he goes on in lecture that don’t relate to a god damn thing? Really start to become a problem when the study guides stop after Unit 2. Then your notes are fuckin useless, lecture’s a shitstorm, and you have no idea what’s gonna be on the damn test.” Shitty absently pops his knuckles. “You just gotta read the book and hope for the best.”  
  
“Shit, dude.”  
  
“Yeah. I fuckin’ eviscerated him in the course eval. ‘Cause how high is Samwell’s tuition now? $22,000? For that price the instruction should come from more than the fuckin’ textbook.”  
  
“Bro. Seriously.” They’re nearly to the quad now. Larissa barely noticed the trip.  
  
“Which is a real fuckin’ shame because Stats is actually useful? I mean for me specifically because I’m in WGSS—uh, Women’s, Gender, and Sexuality Studies; Samwell’s program is the tits—and being able to pick apart studies and data is, like, a solid 45% of the work. But also for life? I mean, now every time they talk about any research in mainstream media I get pissed, but it’s better than getting swept up in ‘research findings’ that’ve been completely digested and sensationalized and—ah, fuck. Shit. I promise I only like to hear myself talk a little bit.”  
  
Larissa laughs. Truthfully, she was enjoying hearing Shitty monologue, even if she’s too tired to properly listen to everything.  
  
“Nah, I’m too tired to keep up my end of the conversation anyway. It’s this or silence. I’m conserving my energy so you won’t have to carry me to Annie’s and administer caffeine intravenously.”  
  
“Believe me, the Quad Espresso Blended Bomb feels like directly injecting caffeine into your system. And ‘intravenously.’ Pretty big word for someone claiming to be seconds away from collapse.”  
  
“Those were some pretty big words for a hockey player before.”  
  
Shitty dramatically clutches his chest and turns his entire body towards Larissa, walking sideways. “Touché, brah. I’m wounded, but touché. Keep up these chirps and you’ll fit in in no time.”  
  
“Chirps?”  
  
Shitty laughs. He’s a little ahead of Larissa and walking backwards now. There’s something about the act that she really likes; how he bends over backwards to address Larissa face to face. Larissa’s never been one to crave extended eye contact and long conversations. She’s not sure why she is now.  
  
“Fuckin’ hockey lingo, amiright? Chirp: too harsh to be called teasing, too playful to be called an insult, ya feel? Unless you’re on the ice, then it’s definitely just a nice word for ‘merciless trashtalk.’ I’m sure Ransom and Holster will fill you in on all the bizarre fuckin’ dichotomies that comprise hockey culture. They seem _really_ enthusiastic about the job, actually.”  
  
Larissa feels a smile spread across her face as she spots Annie’s shining like a beacon of hope in the distance. “Looking forward to it.”  
  
***  
  
It doesn’t stop with that one trip to Annie’s, of course. It just changes settings. Lardo’s in the Haus now, as she is frequently, pouring drip brew from the janky old coffeemaker in the kitchen into a chipped mug that reads “Sexy Teacher.”  
  
It's almost winter break. The Haus is a drafty piece of shit—Shitty doesn’t know how the place is still standing—and Lardo’s wearing an oversized sweatshirt splattered with old paint over Shitty’s boxers that have little cartoon Al Gores printed on them. She’s got on mismatched knee-highs, one patterned Hello Kitty and one plain Under Armor ( _the duality of man_ , Shitty thinks), and weak winter sunlight is filtering in around her edges. Everything is soft, including the smile on Shitty’s face as he observes her rummaging through the fridge for the good creamer.  
  
“Yo, we got any hazelnut left? I can’t stand that gross peppermint stuff.”  
  
Shitty thinks while taking a sip of his noticeably minty coffee. “Hm. Dunno, brah. Johnson sometimes forgets to put it back in the fridge for whatever reason, so it could be chillin’ with the sriracha.”  
  
“Chillin’ but not literally chillin’.”  
  
“Ha. Nice.”  
  
She stands on her tiptoes in order to fully peer into the cabinet and sure enough, snug between two bottles of sriracha, sits the creamer.  
  
Lardo squints at the label before asking, “Do you think I have to worry about it spoiling?”  
  
“We passed Johnson coming down so it probably hasn’t been out for long. I say go for it.”  
  
Lardo pops the top and proceeds to dump it in the mug. “If I die, I expect a kick-ass funeral. Nothing low-budget either. Between you and Jack, my hearse should be pulled by a _literal_ unicorn. And I want a separate funeral in Vietnam with my body there and everything. My ashes will be shot into space.”  
  
“Noted. Though I will mention in my eulogy that you could have been spared had you only recognized the merits of peppermint creamer.”  
  
Lardo wrinkles her nose. “Honestly, bro? I think I’d prefer death.”  
  
Shitty splutters a little. “Seriously? Bro, peppermint creamer is fuckin’ good, what’s the deal?”  
  
“The _deal_ ,” Lardo starts as she makes her way over to the table, “is that I don’t want to be reminded of brushing my teeth while I have my morning coffee.” Now seated, she takes a prim sip of her _mediocre hazelnut_ coffee. Shitty relishes a little in the way she loses her composure briefly as the too-hot liquid hits her tongue.  
  
“That’s part of _the appeal_ , man. It’s like, two parts of the morning in one! You can’t fucking beat that!” Shitty gestures a little too wildly with his mug and watches helplessly as a bit sloshes over his hand.  
  
“Ugh, yes you can. With like, anything else.”  
  
Shitty wipes his hand on his bare thigh. “Whatever, it’s an _experience_. It’s ‘morning,’ summed up in a drink.”  
  
Lardo snorts. “You might as well just get a Denny’s breakfast platter pureed.” Lardo freezes, mug halted on its journey to her mouth. She turns widened eyes on Shitty.  
  
Shitty meets her gaze and acknowledges their mutual thought, “Bro.”  
  
“Dude. This weekend. I gotta get that dumb report in but this weekend for sure.”  
  
Shitty leans forward, gleeful now, “What do we say? Do we just ask the waiter if they can blend a Grand Slam?”  
  
Lardo leans forward as well. “Look, if they can put it all on a sandwich, they can put it in a blender. And if they won’t, we’ll get it to-go and blend it here.”  
  
“Solid plan. Oh man. Jack’s gonna be fucking pissed we used the blender he makes his nasty-ass protein shakes in.”  
  
Lardo’s sharp grin immediately brings him back to the night they met. The lighting may be different, but it’s the same sticky table, the same dark eyes, the same smirk with conspiracy written in its curve.  
  
“What Jack doesn’t know won’t hurt him.”  
  
***  
  
Larissa learns a lot about Shitty that she never expected to:  
  
He likes peppermint coffee creamer.  
He doesn’t like pink gummy bears.  
He loves his mom but they’ll fight about stupid things.  
He’s full of bluster and rage when he talks about his father, but deep down she knows he’s a little hurt, a little unsure, a little numb.  
He wasn’t kidding about hair care.  
  
Larissa learns some things about herself she also wasn’t expecting:  
  
She’s passionate about how gross peppermint coffee creamer is.  
She’s not a big fan of pink gummy bears either, but she’s willing to eat them for Shitty.  
She likes the color green more than previously thought.  
Hockey’s actually pretty dope?  
Larissa kind of wants more firsthand experience with how soft Shitty’s hair is.  
  
So that’s a thing.  
  
Larissa’s honestly so caught up in everything she’s learning, in class and out, that she kind of…forgets to tell Shitty about her plans to study abroad until after spring break.  
  
She has no idea how it hadn’t come up in conversation before, but when she tells Shitty that she’s all set to leave for Kenya in July and his eyes widen in contrast to his furrowed brows, it hits her quite suddenly how it hasn’t.  
  
“Oh, shit.” Larissa doesn’t normally swear a lot—Shitty’s language is colorful enough for the both of them, anyway—but the occasion seems to call for it. They’re at the point in their relationship where Shitty can read Lardo from her expression and limited verbosity, so the clear shock on his face gentles a bit in the face of Larissa’s matching stupor.  
  
Shitty lets out a low whistle. “Kenya, huh? That’s fuckin’ rad.”  
  
And it _is_ rad. Larissa is _so excited_. But seeing Shitty’s earnest eyes makes something slow and bittersweet drip from her heart into her stomach. _God_ , she’s going to miss him.  
  
“I’m gonna fuckin’ miss you, though.” Shitty murmurs.  
  
The thing about Shitty is that you don’t have to guess what he’s thinking. Where Larissa second-guesses and puts up walls, Shitty will casually say what’s in his heart and mind like there’s no reason to hide his thoughts or hoard his feelings. Shitty makes honesty look so simple.  
  
She knows it’s not. She knows that even Shitty must have his secrets and private thoughts. (Larissa indulgently wonders how often she herself features in them.)  
  
She makes herself look at Shitty. Looks at the wind threading through the ends of his hair, the precise curve of his brows, the pronounced dip of his collarbone, the way he’s always _always_ turning towards her yet never making her feel trapped and exposed in the way attention usually makes her feel.  
  
Larissa’s spent her lifetime looking at people. Examining the ways they hold themselves, the ways they move, how the most intangible of emotions can manifest in the fibers and sinews of one’s body. So she can tell there’s more behind Shitty’s encouraging and genuine smile. She has the sudden sense that his irises are green-tinted glass, and that she only has to squint hard enough to see the blurry thoughts lingering in the shifting shadows behind them.  
  
So she squints. (Shitty is worth squinting for). There, she finds a reflection of the sweet-tang molasses currently unspooling down her nerves and settling in her marrow. She doesn’t know how to articulate the feeling so she just gives a smile and says, “You and me, Shits.”  
  
She doesn’t have to say _I’ll miss you too_. Shitty knows that’s what she means and more. He knows she means _Take care of yourself,_ and _You’re the whirlwind I didn’t know I needed_ , and _You’re something to come back to_.  
  
She takes a breath, links her pinky with his, and stares out across the same roofline she looked towards all those months ago. It’s different in the daylight, surrounded by that ephemeral, mild air of spring. Instead of the soft decay of leaves, there’s a new smell. The smell of buds, life.  
  
New beginnings.  
  


**Author's Note:**

> Some notes:  
> -I don't know if any of Shitty's boxers exist but I hope they do.  
> -Jack knows how to take care of his hair, okay? Mama didn't raise no fool.  
> -Robin Ahmed is based on my current roommate. The thing with the nail polish actually happened. It was disgusting.  
> -Look, I grew up in St. Louis and was there during the 2004 World Series. It physically pained me to even mention the Red Sox in passing.  
> -Don't let Shitty's thoughts fool you, I am FIRMLY on Team Hazelnut. Peppermint is gross.  
> -I imagine for everything that happens in canon to occur just as usual following the end of this fic. (Yes, they dance around each other for another year and a half smh).  
> -Sorry if anybody was hyped for explicitly nb/gender fluid/agender Lardo. You can read it however you wish, but just as the characters draw no concrete conclusions from the discussion, neither do I.  
> -I know it's kind of implied in canon that Shitty and Lardo slept together the night before Brunch at Jerry's. That'd be in line with a demi reading of Shitty's sexuality. Or, they didn't and they just don't feel the need to correct people's assumptions. (Or, everybody there knew Shitty was ace and reasonably left it at that.) I personally headcanon Shitty as grey-ace. Go nuts, y'all.
> 
> You can find the accompanying playlist (a mix of character, relationship, setting, and mood songs) on 8tracks here: https://8tracks.com/the_bloss/rainstorm-reason-to-try (I gave up on getting it to work on Spotify sorry)
> 
> You can find me on tumblr @kent-parsons-cowlick. If you are so inclined, the art is posted there at https://kent-parsons-cowlick.tumblr.com/post/162333740620/some-art-for-my-fic-rainstorm-reason-to-try-for
> 
> Special thanks to all the kind souls in the OMGCP Big Bang slack. Thanks for the sprints and enthusiasm. Y'all rock.


End file.
